All The Colonel's Men
by EJ3
Summary: A lull in the war leaves Hogan plenty of time to deal with all the day-to-day problems of camp life.


All The Colonel's Men

EJ McFall

Sgt. Kinchloe glared at the graffiti on the barracks door with such intensity that if it had been able to remove itself, it doubtless would have.

"It is such a bad word." Sgt. Schultz interrupted the American's thoughts. "Colonel Hogan must be very upset."

"He's used to it by now."

Schultz shook his head. "Colonel Hogan is a troublemaker, but not that. I don't understand why his own men…"

"I'll take the paint." Kinch grabbed the bucket from the guard. "Thanks."

"The Kommandant says he'll transfer whoever wrote it to another camp."

"It's Allied business. We'll take care of it."

Schultz -being smart enough to know that Hogan's adjutant was not a man to be trifled with- mumbled a reply and headed back across the compound.

Kinch gestured for one of the prisoners to join him. "Make sure no one can read it."

"Right, Sarge." Cpl. Morris pulled a paint brush from his jacket. "This door is going to have 100 coats of paint on it by the end of the war."

"Just see that it's gone." Kinch headed inside the barracks and straight to the Colonel's office. "It'll be gone in a few moments, sir."

"Thanks, Kinch." Hogan was stretched out on his bunk, his nose in a copy of _The Count of Monte Cristo. _

"LeBeau is over at the French barracks. He'll find out who's responsible."

Hogan nodded.

"Klink's offered to transfer whoever it is to another camp. Maybe you should take him up on it this time."

Hogan shook his head, as Kinch knew he would. "LeBeau will get his countrymen settled down. He always does."

"Colonel, the Free French execute collaborators." Kinch tried to get Hogan's attention, but he was still reading. Or at least he was pretending to. "They're ruthless about it."

"I'm aware of that." Hogan set his book down and stretched. "It's not the first time someone wrote 'collaborator' on our door and it won't be the last. It's just a word, Kinch. I'm still alive."

"But, Colonel…" Sgt. Carter had been writing at Hogan's table. "Wouldn't you be safer if Klink transferred whoever it is that doesn't like you?"

"Sticks and stones, Carter." Hogan returned to his book. "Strictly speaking, I suppose I am a collaborator. I happen to think the end justifies the means, but I'm not going to have someone shipped off to another camp just for disagreeing with me."

"But, sir…"

"How's your project going, Carter?"

"Uh, fine, but…"

"Good, you keep working on it." Hogan turned to Kinch. "He's working on an international soccer tournament. I think it'll be good for morale. We can call it the Kraut Bowl."

Kinch nodded automatically. He'd left Carter to guard Hogan until they were sure their graffiti artist posed no threat. Obviously their commander had other ideas. "Colonel, I…"

"Mon Colonel…" Cpl. LeBeau hurried into the office. His lip was cut and his eye was swollen, but he was grinning. "Everything is alright. I've taken care of our problem."

"Looks like our problem took care of you." Hogan came to examine LeBeau's injuries. "Carter, go see if Schultz can find you some ice."

"Yes, sir. Right away." Carter hurried outside.

"So were you able to talk some sense into my fan?"

"Oui." LeBeau accepted a glass of 'medicinal' whiskey from Hogan. "It was one of the airmen who've been here since the beginning. His father died during the occupation and he just received word that his mother died in a labor camp. He has no idea where his sister is or even if she's still alive. He got drunk when the letter came and just needed to take it out on someone. I suppose we're lucky he chose you and not one of the guards."

"Klink says he'll transfer him to another camp. Do you think that's necessary?"

LeBeau shook his head, though the sudden motion made him wince. "He won't give you any more trouble, but if he gets a reputation as a French dissident he'll end up in a labor camp. Or worse. I give you my personal guarantee that he's written his last graffiti."

"Alright, LeBeau, if you're willing to accept responsibility for him, then we'll consider the matter closed." Hogan ignored Kinch's loud sigh. "I'll tell Klink that…"

"Begging your pardon, sir." Cpl. Newkirk appeared at the door, sporting a black eye and a cut on his cheek. "There's a problem at one of the British barracks that needs an officer's attention."

"Are you ok?" Hogan came over to Newkirk just as Carter returned with an ice pack. "We need more ice, Carter."

"Huh?" Carter gave LeBeau the pack, caught sight of Newkirk and headed back for the door. "Coming right up."

"I'm fine, sir. It's…" Newkirk led the way from the office to the common area. A young RAF airman stood at attention, the very image of fear and misery. "This is Private Dawes. His barracks was in the process of beating the dickens out of him when I happened by."

"What is this all about, Private?" Hogan scrutinized the boy, trying to decide if he was a victim or an instigator. By the way he was shaking, Hogan decided he was probably the victim.

"It was my fault, Colonel." Dawes mumbled. "A misunderstanding with my mates."

"Kipling here was keeping a journal." Newkirk handed a well-worn notebook to Hogan. "His mates took objection to his subject matter. And his illustrations."

Hogan flipped open the book, scanned a page, and snapped it shut again. "Private Dawes, you realize that this is all the evidence the RAF needs to give you a dishonorable discharge and lock you up for a very long time?"

"Yes, sir." The boy was barely audible in the suddenly silent room.

"Is that the kind of news you want to write to your parents?"

"No, sir. It would kill them, sir."

Hogan tossed the book into the stove and gestured for Newkirk to set it on fire. "I don't give a fig who you fall in love with, Private, unless it interferes with the smooth operation of my camp. Is that clear, Dawes?"

"Yes, sir." Dawes stared in shock and relief at his burning journal. "If you just give me a second chance, Colonel, you'll have no more difficulty from me. I swear."

"I'll hold you to that, Private." Hogan turned to Newkirk. "Can he go back to his barracks?"

"I wouldn't think so." Newkirk paused to take an ice pack from Carter. "They put him out."

"Alright. Find him a bunk in here, read him the riot act, and make sure he doesn't need medical attention. Not necessarily in that order. " Hogan turned to Carter, who was already heading for the door.

"I know, I know. More ice." Carter sighed mightily before stomping back outside.

Kinch listened to Newkirk informing his young charge about the dire consequences of revealing any of the secrets he'd see while living in Barracks Two, decided Newkirk had the situation under control and followed Hogan back into his office.

"The Krauts must be putting something in the water to make everyone go crazy today." Hogan flopped onto his bunk. "Tell me we have some urgent orders from London so I don't have to deal with any more camp problems."

"Sorry, sir." Kinch chuckled. "We've blown up everything within a ten-mile radius and we're fresh out of defectors and double agents. I can go arrange a mass escape, if you want something more challenging to deal with."

"No, thanks." Hogan reached for his book. "I'm going to sit right here and…"

"Colonel…" Carter peeked around the door. "Sasha Pasternak says he needs to see you."

"I can tell him you're busy." Kinch offered, though he knew there was no point.

Hogan shook his head. "He wouldn't come unless it was something important."

"Right." Kinch ushered the Russian airman into the office. The sergeant was Hogan's liaison with the Soviet prisoners and rarely showed up on the American side of camp. When he did, he generally demanded a private audience with the Senior POW. "I'll be right outside, Colonel, in case you need me."

Hogan merely smiled and closed the office door.

Kinch joined his friends at the table in the communal room. Newkirk and LeBeau were holding the ice packs to their injuries while Carter was hard at work on his project.

"What are you doing, Andrew?" Kinch leaned over Carter's shoulder. "The Colonel said something about a Kraut Bowl?"

Carter nodded. "He said there have been too many fights lately and people need something to do. So I thought it'd be a good idea to have a soccer tournament between all the different nationalities."

"Football, not soccer." Newkirk mumbled as he dabbed ice on his eye.

Carter shook his head. "Colonel Hogan said it wouldn't be fair to have a football tournament since Europeans don't play it like Americans do."

"Oui." LeBeau laid his head on his arms with a slight moan. "What Americans call soccer, we call football. What you call football, we call rugby."

"Huh?"

Kinch couldn't help laughing at Carter's confusion. "The Kraut Bowl will be a European football tournament, not an American soccer tournament."

"Oh." Carter considered. "So do I have to ask Schultz for soccer balls or footballs?"

"Soccer balls." Newkirk and LeBeau said in unison.

"So they can play football." Kinch added, biting his cheek to keep from laughing out loud.

"Ok…" Carter stared at his stack of papers. "Anyway, we need captains for the different teams. Do you guys…"

Kinch ignored the others as Hogan and Pasternak exited the office. The sergeant left immediately. Hogan signaled for Kinch to come over to him.

"There's been another suicide on the Russian side." Hogan spoke softly. "I've got to go ask Klink for permission to dig a grave."

"Can I do anything?"

"No, the Russians prefer to handle everything themselves." Hogan sighed. "They've gotten too much practice digging graves on that side of camp lately."

Kinch nodded. There wasn't much else to say. Suicide was –unfortunately –an unpleasant part of camp life. Hogan and his men tried to prevent it when they could, but none of them had much influence on the Soviet side of camp. Kinch returned to the table and quietly explained the situation to his friends.

"Poor bugger."

"Oui."

Carter lowered his head for a moment. Kinch assumed he was saying a prayer for the lost airman. He waited silently for him to raise his head again. "The Colonel's right – we could use a morale booster about now. Your soccer tournament might just be the thing, Andrew."

"You think so?" Carter looked hopeful. "I know it sounds kind of dumb, but…"

"It's not dumb. It's a little bit of home." Newkirk reached for his cigarettes. "I'll be one of your captains, if you like. The British team will trample any comers."

LeBeau scoffed. "I'll captain the French team just to have the pleasure of seeing them beat the Brits."

"How'd you like to put your money where your mouth is, you little frog?"

"Any amount you like. I've seen you play football."

"What's that mean?"

"Um…I guess I'll go see if I can find volunteers for the American team…" Carter slipped hastily out of the building.

Kinch made his own escape down to the radio room to relieve Baker.

"What's all the caterwauling about?" Baker asked as he turned over the headphones.

"Newkirk and LeBeau are arguing about who can beat who at soccer. Or football." Kinch shook his head. "It's been a crazy day upstairs. How's it been down here?"

"A whole lot of nothing going on." Baker yawned. "It was so quiet, I sent London a test message just to make sure they were still receiving."

"This lull is getting all of us on edge, especially the Colonel. If we don't get a mission soon, I think he's going to go stir crazy."

"I'd hate to see that." Baker spoke in a conspiratorial tone. "Colonel Hogan does some strange things in the line of duty. I wouldn't want to see how he'd act if he ever went nuts."

"That is a pretty scary thought." Kinch paused as he detected more noise from above their heads.

"Kinch!" The bunk lifted up and Newkirk called down to him. "You've got to see this!"

Kinch hurried up the stairs. He found Carter sitting at the table while LeBeau held an ice pack to his jaw. "What the hell happened to you?"

"I….uh…"Carter brushed LeBeau away. "One of the guys in Barracks Six called Colonel Hogan a lousy Red."

"So?" Kinch frowned, knowing what was coming.

"I…uh…kind of slugged him." Carter shrugged. "He had no right calling the Colonel names."

"It looks like he kind of slugged you back." Kinch smiled, despite himself. "Are you sure you just weren't jealous of Newkirk and LeBeau and their black eyes?"

"You'd better come up with a better excuse than that, mate." Newkirk poured himself and Carter a glass of pain-killer. "You know the Guv doesn't like us starting fights."

"You're a fine one to talk." LeBeau retorted.

"What's that mean? I got my shiner trying to keep a silly git from having the stuffing knocked out of him."

"That was today. What about the fight you started over…"

"Ok, guys. This isn't the time." Kinch pointed out the door. Hogan, Schultz and Langenscheidt were crossing the compound with shovels over their shoulders.

"Yeah, I suppose you're right." Newkirk reached for his deck of cards and dealt himself a hand of solitaire.

"Do you think the Russians will want to join our tournament? I mean, maybe it'd be good for their morale, like the Colonel says."

"I think it'd be nice of you to ask them." Kinch closed the door as the grave detail passed from sight. "Though not today."

"It will be good for all of us to think of something other than war, Andre." LeBeau glanced at Carter's plans. "Show me how your tournament will work."

"Really?" Carter grinned as he spread out the papers.

Kinch took advantage of the relative calm to head back down to the radio room. He settled in at his station and dug through a pile of radio manuals for his copy of _Mutiny on the Bounty._ He'd been trying to read it for the last year and hadn't been able to get past the first chapter before something demanded his attention. He was just getting comfortable when he heard the call signal from London. He tossed the book back onto the stack of manuals. The lull was officially over.


End file.
